


Lotus

by merrythoughts



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Feminization, Fucked Up, M/M, Murder Husbands, POV Second Person, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Self-Indulgent, They both bottom in different ways, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 06:51:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12721719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts
Summary: When he allows intercourse, you’re still dressed as a woman.





	Lotus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dapperscript](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dapperscript/gifts).



> Yo, so this idea hit me a week ago while at dapperscript's house... 'what if X only touched Y when Y was dressed as a woman' and I felt like yasss, let's write this fucked up dynamic because I'm trash. And I like subverting expectations, or trying and I also like my shitty 2nd person POV so here's some pwp!
> 
> Maybe I will write more on this!? °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

The wig is cheap and you detest it. It doesn't matter as he likes it. It's sandy blonde and feels coarse, but it's not a far cry from your natural hair color. It falls to your shoulders, slightly wavy. At least it isn't a hideous red or God forbid an unnatural hair color like pink or blue. It's a small consolation. Yet you know you would wear whatever he wanted if it meant he'd touch you. This is the fate you've resigned yourself to.   
  
(Love isn't always considerate.)   
  
He only touches you when you're dressed as a woman. When your body is waxed and your face is smooth. When you wear a matching pair of lacy underwear and bra that scratches at your skin and feels entirely confining in a way that a three piece suit never did. When you wear stockings and suffer the uncomfortable strain of high heels. When your lips are painted in red and you speak in a demure tone.   
  
You like when he kisses you roughly, when the lipstick smears and you can see remnants of the color on his face. It makes the scent and taste of the chemicals bearable. It reminds you of the night you two killed a dragon, his body splattered in blood, like a painting come to life just for your eyes.   
  
Perhaps he wishes to demean you. Perhaps it's another test of just how far you’d go for him. You've given up seeking answers. He's here with you and the answer aren’t actually important.   
  
It's easier to bend to his whims, to give in and be malleable now. You have long lived your life only for yourself. You made your choice when you went to your knees, snow melting into your slacks. Freedom without Will Graham is meaningless.

Or perhaps this is a punishment for you failing to let the sea claim the two of you. After all, he’d wanted to kill you both and you’d denied him the simple escape.  
  
(Love isn't always fair.)   
  
You're bent over the kitchen table, your hands reaching across the top and grasping at the glass edges. You think you will paint your nails next time and see how he reacts to the sight. Even now you still remain curious about him.

Will likes pushing your buttons, therefore he's brought you here to the dining room. The dining room table is not where you want to be spreading your legs for him, but you do it anyway. This is the table the two of you _eat_ what you painstakingly prepare. Doing anything sexual here is borderline sacrilegious, but for Will you will allow it. 

The sound of him pulling on the familiar black latex gloves gets your skin prickling in anticipation. He doesn't need the gloves. You get yourself clean and prepared before you dress up. You don't need to ask why, for you already know: he prefers the added barrier.  
  
"Keep your ass up for me," he instructs. He doesn't sound drunk at least.

You obey. Your legs and feet already ache from the red pumps you are wearing. You'll endure it for him. You've already endured much for him so failure in this isn’t an option.  
  
Your cheek is against the clear top of the glass table. A gloved hand comes to rest on your low back, his fingers slipping under the black lace trim of the panties you're wearing. He pulls a little before bunching it up and letting the fabric collect between the cleft. Will tugs it and you remain composed, your eyes slipping shut. His other hand reaches to brush fake sandy brown hair away from your face. You are allowed to close your eyes, but you are never to hide behind the wig or clothes. He wants you exposed and vulnerable in all ways. You can appreciate the sentiment.   
  
He gives the panties one last upward tug before abandoning them. You hear the sound of the bottle of lubricant being uncapped. A dry glove comes to pull the bunched up panties to the side, and fingers spread you open, exposing your waiting entrance.

However, a slick finger does not follow. You tense as the silence stretches on. He’s watching you. You hear the second hand of the grandfather clock tick from the sitting room.

He waits.

You wait.

You then discern what he wants. “Please, Will,” you murmur softly, eyes opening to crane your head and look over your shoulder at him. His torso is bare, jeans hanging low on his hips, a strip of his boxer band showing. He’s never looked more terrifying and beautiful to you. A regal panther in no rush to devour his prey.

“There’s my good girl,” he answers, a sliver of warmth present in his tone. It’s also condescending, but belonging to Will is important to you. You feel the first real stirring of arousal.

A wet finger then presses against your hole. You force yourself to relax, resting your cheek against the table again, eyes closing. His finger rubs a slow circle around your rim. Sensation sparks, frissons of anticipation and an antsy desire taking shape. It’s with the lightest of pressure that he touches this most intimate spot. Will enjoys in working you up, his finger barely pressing in -- a hint of penetration, but nothing following.

He makes a pleased hum as your breathing starts to increase. You’re trying to be patient, but the ruthless teasing makes it rather difficult. The high heels squeeze at your feet. The lace scratches at your chest. You smell the cheap material of the wig. The chemicals in the dark red lipstick you applied earlier. You feel his heated gaze on your submissive position.

You aren’t submissive, but for him you can play the part.

“Will…” A plea.

“Shh, it’ll be fine.” An answer.

When the tip of his finger finally breaches you, you let out a shaky exhale. The gloved digit pushes in slowly. As always, your body adjusts to the intrusion. He doesn’t rush here either. His finger slides all the way into your channel. You breathe and take it. He works you slow, finger pumping lazily inside your body and then pulling out. He purposefully avoids your prostate.

All you can hear is your labored breathing, the squish of his finger sliding in and the steady, rhythmic ticking of the clock from the other room. Eventually one finger becomes two, but the resistance is very little as Will is surprisingly thorough.

“I like fingering you open,” Will says almost conversationally.

You say nothing, your tongue slipping out to moisten your lips. The taste of lipstick has you wincing and stopping the motion.

“I like seeing how badly you want me to fuck you.” Will’s two fingers start moving a little faster, earnest as ever.

“You also take pleasure in denying me,” you respond, careful to keep your voice soft and more feminine, just how you know he likes it.

“Yeah, I do.” An honest, amused chuckle follows.

His small laugh causes your lips to twitch. He might see it because he then chooses to crook his fingers and glance your prostate. You jolt from the sensation, a surprised moan escaping your mouth. Your cock strains against the fabric of the black lace panties.

Both of you know where this is is going.

He doesn’t fuck you. He never does. He fingers you ruthlessly until you’re sweating and gasping, completely undone by him. The feeling is always disconcerting, but it’s singularly Will and that makes it bearable.

(His love is ravenous.)

“You want it so bad, don’t you?” Will asks as he pulls three fingers out of your body. He’s kept you on edge for what seems like hours now. The emptiness is like being doused with cold water, shocking and uncomfortable, but so very Will.

You say nothing. As long as your skin touches his skin, as long as he shares his mind with you occasionally, you will let him try and tear you apart -- after all, that is what you did to his life. Even Steven, he would say.

***

He prefers to stretch himself open. You would prefer to prepare him, to feel the tension and tightness melt around your skilled fingers, but Will won’t give that to you.

When he allows intercourse, you’re still dressed as a woman.

This time you’re in a silk navy blue babydoll négligé, sans the matching panties. The fabric is soft against your skin and you much prefer it to the scratchier lace. Will is in your lap, facing you, your legs crossed behind each other. A lotus position. You can’t get much motion into any thrusts, but the staggering intimacy makes up for it. It’s far more close and personal than you would ever believe he’d be all right with. Will Graham has always been a curious creature, the perfect baited lure for you.

At some point he’s pulled off the wig. His arms are looped around you neck, his hands find your real hair and pull. Will’s head lolls back as he grinds down into you. You cling onto him, your cock buried deep within his scorching heat. When he huddles in closer, you feel the wet slide of his pre-come against your belly.

The sounds he makes are nothing short of exquisite. Soft groans, bitten off cries. His eyes open and close intermittently. When he needs a break from stimuli, they close. When he wants to verify this is real, they open. Yours remain open the entire time, not wanting to miss a single detail.

It’s nothing short of a divine experience. It matters not if one or both of you orgasm from this. In this single moment, you’re connected. You’re close. You’re falling again. (You’ve been falling for years now, it feels like.) His hands reach and touch you. You hold him.

He may demand that you dress up, he may try to erect barriers, but he always finds ways to prove them meaningless.

He proves it now.


End file.
